


Things That Breathe

by excelgesis



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Drinking, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Vampires, and soft human!jisung, i just really wanted to write vampire!minho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: Minho hates himself, and he wonders if the endless stretch of immortality will ever lessen the sting of self-loathing.But Jisung is bright as sunshine and delicate as glass, and Minho can't sleep with that thousand-watt smile painted behind his eyes. A human with saccharin-sweet blood would dissipate like candle flame in Minho's hands--Unless he isn't quite the monster he thinks he is.





	1. It Was Not Death

**Author's Note:**

> "Taking a thing to the end of its life  
> Is what I was made to do
> 
> I think I am not attuned  
> To the things that breathe" 
> 
> -Dorothea Lasky, "The End"

              Minho hated himself, and he wondered idly for the thousandth time if the endless stretch of immortality would ever lessen the sting of self-loathing. It was always there, sitting like acid on the back of his tongue: bitter and sharp as a knife.

               It was there now, barely muted by the screams of the audience and the harsh glow of the overhead lights. All of his senses were on high alert, violin strings pulled taut and ready to snap: he could feel each article of jewelry cold against his skin, could see Hyunjin on his right and Felix on his left, could smell each distinct person in the club packed from corner to dingy corner – sweat and blood and alcohol and stale cigarettes.

               And he was dancing, moving the way the audience wanted him to move, letting the bass pound through his chest while he tried to extend his glamour as far as it would go. He knew that, coupled with Felix and Hyunjin, they would have everyone in the room under their control in less than thirty seconds, just like they did every week. One simple performance, a bit of flirting with the crowd, and three lucky winners to be taken backstage. It was too easy.

               It made Minho sick.

               The music faded to a close and the audience erupted into wild shouts and cheers. Some screamed for an encore, while others reached high above their heads to snap a photo or wave a handful of neon glowsticks.

               “Are you having a good time?” Felix let out a breathy laugh into his microphone when several girls in the crowd shrieked and waved, frantically vying for his attention. He winked and blew a kiss in their direction.

               “It’s time for the moment we know you’ve all been waiting for,” Hyunjin purred, running a hand through his pitch-dark hair. He was laying it on thick, and Minho knew it. His glamour was the strongest of the three, and he could hold a handful of humans in check with minimal effort. It was infuriating, really, how Hyunjin had adapted to the change so well. While Minho spent his days choking on acidic guilt, Hyunjin fell into this life of blood-soaked debauchery like he had been born for it.  

               “Who will be tonight’s lucky winners?” Hyunjin shucked off his leather jacket as he jumped from the stage, and immediately there were hands tugging at his shirt, running along his arms, pulling at his wrists. He grinned and threw his head back, basking in the attention, and Minho didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened as he came so close to the scent of fresh blood.

               Felix followed suit, jumping into the crowd and laughing at the hands on his face, his chest, his shoulders. Fingers ran through his styled hair and caught in the belt loops of his jeans. It was quite obvious that the glamour had worked well. The humans wanted a taste of Felix almost as badly as he wanted a taste of them.

               Minho was next, and he slid from the stage with a heavy feeling in his chest. It was his least favorite part of the night, and he strengthened his glamour so the crowd wouldn’t see the dread in his eyes. His hair was styled up, his eyeliner was delicate, and he knew how he must look to them: irresistible. Otherworldly. And they were all dying to touch.

               He could feel their hands warm on his skin, their fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at his jewelry, and the nausea intensified. He would have to choose one – the fire raging at the back of his throat wouldn’t let him forget that – so perhaps if he just picked at random like usual--?

               But there was a gaze on him, heavier than the rest, and he could feel it slipping around his neck like a noose. It wasn’t difficult to find the source: a boy with disheveled blond hair and round glasses, staring at Minho curiously from the middle of the audience. The sleeves of his oversized pink sweater were rolled up to the elbows, and he raised an eyebrow when he caught Minho staring back. His eyes were glassy, a clear indicator that the glamour was working, but his gaze felt like a physical weight and the fire in Minho’s throat increased tenfold.

               He wanted to touch him, suddenly, to taste his blood on his tongue. It would be him, or no one.

               He pushed through the crowd roughly, barely taking the time to be surprised at his own eagerness, until the boy was right in front of him with his messy hair and wide brown eyes. The heat radiating from him was intense, and Minho staggered backward as he nearly choked on the pain in his throat. What was this human, this personification of sunshine, doing in a club like this? And why did Minho want to be endlessly burned by the fire emanating from his skin?

               The boy took a step closer and flashed a bright smile – _oh, God_ – before reaching for Minho’s wrist. The glamour was still in full effect, of course, and he would want to touch Minho just as badly as anyone else in the room.

               Irresistible. Otherworldly.

               His fingers met Minho’s skin, and the heat was a shock so sudden that Minho flinched and hissed. The boy jumped back, eyes wide, and guilt immediately replaced the longing in Minho’s chest. Of course this boy would be afraid of him. He was a monster, after all.

               “I’m Jisung.” The voice was loud and full of an unwarranted confidence, lacking even a shred of fear, and the boy – Jisung – reached forward to grab Minho’s wrist again. “I’ve never been here before. What does it mean to be the night’s winner?”

               The heat from his skin was almost unbearable, warmer than any human Minho had ever touched, and he felt the strangest shiver crawl down his spine. He could see Jisung’s pulse fluttering at his neck. He swallowed. “It means you get to go backstage with us.”

               Jisung grinned. “To do what?”

               God, his smile lit up the entire room, and there were flames radiating from the point where their skin touched, and it would be _so easy_ to lead him behind that stage and wrap his fingers around that pretty neck just for _one taste_ —

               No. Minho wouldn’t be the one to extinguish that light. He would never forgive himself.

               “It’s nothing.” Minho coughed as the fire in his throat roared in protest. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.”

               Jisung pouted then, eyes wider than ever, and grabbed at Minho’s free hand. “I never said I wouldn’t be interested. Are you saying I’m not good enough to win?”

               There were mere inches between them now, and Minho felt dizzy for the first time in over half a century. “That’s not it,” he gasped.

               “Then what is it?” Jisung took a step closer. “My friends brought me here because they said you guys are the best dance group in town, and it’s exciting to see who the winners are every week. I’m not denying the dance part – you guys are awesome, but I wanna know what’s so special about going backstage. What is it, like, an orgy or something?”

               “Jesus, no.” Minho took a step back but Jisung tugged him forward until their chests were touching, and the smell of his blood was alcohol and saccharin all at once. He knew his own limits, and he wouldn’t be able to last much longer if he didn’t put half a mile of distance between himself and this boy in the next minute.

               A chorus of shouts and disappointed groans flew into the air as Hyunjin leapt back onto the stage with a girl in tow. In jeans and a simple soccer jersey, she didn’t seem like the type he would normally go for, but then Minho caught the feisty light in her eyes and the tumble of her long, dark hair and immediately understood. If Hyunjin let his glamour down, she’d be a challenge, and Hyunjin had always liked the thrill of that.

               The restlessness in the crowd only increased when Felix joined him, tugging on the wrist of a boy who looked surly and ready to throw a punch. His baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes and he was dressed in black from head to toe, but Felix’s glamour was strong, and Minho could tell that his coiffed platinum hair and wide eyes could make even this boy weak in the knees.

               “You’re last, as always,” Felix said with a wink, nodding in Minho’s direction. “Though it looks like you’ve found someone.”

               Flames were making their way from Minho’s throat to the tips of his toes, and Jisung’s pulse point was so close, he could hear it thrumming underneath the club’s raucous noise. It was intoxicating and maddening and so dangerous because he’d _surely_ kill this boy—

               Jisung raised a brow and tilted his head back. “Well?”

               And it snapped then, the violin string that had been pulled too tight, and Minho reached up to run his fingers along the side of Jisung’s neck, to counteract that burning skin with his own icy touch. Jisung sucked in an audible breath and his grip tightened around Minho’s wrist. The air between them was alight with electricity and Jisung’s eyes were even glassier than before.

               “I don’t want to hurt you,” Minho whispered with the last shred of self-control he had left.

               Jisung blinked, long and slow. “I wouldn’t mind.”

               It was the glamour talking – it always was – and Minho knew that everything they did here was of dubious morality at best. But after years of the same routine, why did this boy cause a deep-seated uncertainty that he couldn’t shake?

               “We haven’t got all night, you know!” Hyunjin called from the stage.

               “He’s right,” Jisung said with the slightest of smiles. “Come on, it’s only for tonight, after all. What’s the harm?”

               The laugh that bubbled up in Minho’s aching throat was bitter and sharp. How calm and collected this boy was in the face of death. Minho was generally the most controlled of the three, able to stop himself well before a human lost consciousness and capable of patching their memory and escorting them out the door before the other two had even finished.

               But Jisung, with flames under his skin and saccharin in his blood and a smile that rivalled the sun – his life was delicate as glass in Minho’s palms and that thought was terrifying.

               “I think you need to leave.” Minho closed his eyes and lowered his hand from Jisung’s neck.

               “I don’t want to leave.”

               “Get a move on, mate!” Felix shouted in English. “What’s the holdup?”

               Minho opened his eyes to see Jisung staring at him intently with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He noticed then that his glasses had no lenses, and he wondered why Jisung felt the need to wear them at all. He wondered a lot of things about this boy who was bright as sunshine and delicate as ice.

               How quickly the scorching heat of his existence could be extinguished by Minho’s lithe fingers, how easy it would be to sate the endless pain tearing his throat into pieces—

               “Go,” Minho gasped, shoving Jisung away with enough force to make him stumble. “Get out.” He couldn’t risk letting his glamour down, not with hundreds of prying eyes stuck to his every move like flies to paper, but Jisung needed to know, needed to _understand_ —

               Jisung’s glasses slid to the end of his nose and even still – even now – Minho could hear his heartbeat pattering and it was divine torture.

               _All lives burn bright as lantern flame. It is when you extinguish that flame that you have truly become a monster._

And he could see it still, clear as reflections on mirror-smooth water, lifeless eyes and chalky skin drained of all light. He could feel the blood tacky on his shaking hands, could taste its metallic tang between his teeth.

               He had cried. He had gone to the nearest church to pray, like the Western missionaries had taught him, but had stopped cold at the doors when there was no one to invite him inside. The blood was still warm as it dripped from his fingertips, black tar in the harsh moonlight.

               Hands on his waist tugged him back to the present, and he locked eyes with a slim girl in a bomber jacket, her hands inching dangerously close to his jeans. She arched a brow and tilted her head to one side. “Is he more interesting than I am?” Her glassy eyes slid toward Jisung.

               Jisung blinked, slow as poured honey, and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The sleeves of his pastel sweater had slipped down to cover his hands. Minho could feel heat radiating from him like a collapsing star forcing energy into the cosmos, but he took a searing breath and thought of lifeless eyes and black blood puddles on church steps.

               “Of course not… sweetheart.” He forced the endearment through gritted teeth and placed a hand over hers. She was nothing compared to Jisung; it was like a firework display after witnessing a supernova, but she was blissfully safe and that was what he needed. “Would you like to come with me?” He gestured toward the stage.

               She smiled demurely and blinked up at him through long artificial lashes. “I’d love to.”

               He grabbed her hand – lukewarm, he noted – and pulled her through the crowd, as far as he could get from Jisung’s blazing, burning fire. His skin still prickled, his throat ached, and he was sure that Jisung’s smile was forever burned onto the darkness behind his eyelids. He felt the sudden overwhelming urge to tear something apart with his bare hands, and the familiar bite of acidic self-loathing rose to the back of his tongue.

               Felix’s eyebrows rose when Minho brought the girl to the stage. “What about that--”

               Minho shook his head once, as sharply as he could manage, and Felix squinted but didn’t say anything else.

               “I’m afraid that’s it, folks.” Hyunjin’s voice was petals on velvet as he leaned into the microphone. A chorus of groans and shouts rose from the crowd. Hyunjin tilted his head to the side and raised a hand, palm facing outward. “Hey, hey, be sure to come back next week. We have a new performance planned, so it’s worth sticking around for, right?” He winked, and a handful of girls in the audience let out high-pitched shrieks. “And besides, you never know when the winner will be you.”

               The overhead lights faded to black, and Minho tugged the girl backstage, keeping his glamour coiled against her skin. It made her eager to follow, lacing her fingers through his and pawing at the fabric of his shirt, and the thought of what he was about to do made something dark curl in the pit of his stomach.

               “See you on the other side, eh?” Hyunjin elbowed him in the ribs and gave his partner a quick once-over. “Not that I disapprove, but I really thought you’d choose that guy in the sweater--”

               “Drop it, Hyunjin.” Minho sighed. “Please.”

               Hyunjin’s lips pursed. “Whatever you say. Anyway, make it home safe, yeah? No casualties.”

               Minho raised a brow. “You’re one to talk.”  

               The girl clinging to Hyunjin’s arm blinked and tugged at his jacket. “Casualties?”

               “Just a joke, love,” he purred in her ear. “Let’s get going, hmm?” He sauntered down the hallway and pulled her into the nearest room, closing the door behind them with a faint click.

               Minho decided on the same room he had used to prepare for their performance, the one with the pleather loveseat and the shabby vanity. He kept his glamour strong as he locked the door behind them.

               The girl blinked up at him, her wide eyes as glassy as ever. She was wearing colored lenses in a startling shade of blue, and the glue that held her lashes down was losing its hold in the corners. Her lipgloss was smudged, and Minho frowned at the scent of alcohol coursing through her veins. He’d taste it for sure, and he could only hope she hadn’t gone overboard.

               She had gone overboard. Minho could taste the alcohol’s sharp tang mixed with iron and salt as blood dripped from her wrist and across his tongue. The sterilized knife he had used to make the incision had fallen to the floor with a clatter when the scent hit him full-force, but he had to drink, he had no choice, and he knew it.

               His glamour was strong, the girl didn’t scream, and he had sealed her wound and patched her memory in under half an hour. His throat still burned when she left, but it was bearable, and he headed home with a heavy sigh on his lips.

               He collapsed into bed and kept his eyes trained on the stark white of the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep – he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again – with his mind so full of that blazing fire, that thousand-watt smile, and what it would be like to slake his thirst with liquid sunshine.

☼

               The week passed in an aching, torturous blur, and Minho was back on stage sooner than he would have liked. The crowd had responded well to their new performance, and raucous cheers bounced off the club’s walls in an endless cacophony. He felt as if he’d swallowed teaspoon after teaspoon of acid. There was a dull ringing in his ears, each muscle was poised to strike, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this _thirsty._

               “Dude, are you okay?” Felix’s voice was muffled, as if it were coming from underwater.

               “Fine,” Minho hissed.

               And when Hyunjin announced that the time had come, Minho was the first to jump from the stage. He pushed through the crowd roughly, ignoring their reaching hands and needy eyes. He had a destination, and the electricity in his body wouldn’t let him forget it.

               He felt him before he saw him: the dying stellar body forcing heat into the vacuum of space, that enticing fire, and he was only pulled closer and closer and _god it was so dangerous—_

               Jisung was sitting at a booth pushed into a dark corner. His hands were clasped around a drink, and he had his head thrown back as he laughed loudly at something his friends were saying. Even from this distance, Minho could see his pulse thrumming underneath the delicate skin, and his fingers curled inward involuntarily. How could one person be this _much_ , this _overwhelming_?

               “Jisung?” Minho flinched at the way his own voice sounded: unforgiving and dark.

               Jisung turned his head, and Minho felt his entire body stiffen. His blond hair was styled back from his forehead, round glasses pushed down low on the bridge of his nose, and Minho could have sworn he caught a glimpse of dark liner behind those long lashes. He flashed a bright smile and Minho was sure that if Jisung were given the task of outshining the sun, he would certainly win.

               “Oh hey, I remember you!” Jisung excused himself from the table and came to stand in front of him, eyes instantly going glassy at the strength of his glamour. “Did you need something? Do I get to win?”

               Minho swallowed and it was the purest agony. Each of his senses were on high alert and he was drowning, the thirst all-encompassing, his brain foggy with the need—

               But Jisung was so _bright_ , the true embodiment of sunshine. He would never forgive himself if he dimmed that light, but his throat was aching in protest—

               “D-do you want to win?” The stutter slipped out and caught him by surprise.

               Jisung blinked, a slow fluttering of delicate lashes. “Of course.”

               And that was all it took. Rational thought shattered like glass on concrete, and Minho was pulling Jisung toward the stage without another word. They were offstage and down the hallway before Hyunjin had made his final announcements. Jisung’s wrist was alight in his grip, the rush of his blood was a veritable symphony, and Minho thought his knees might give out before they got anywhere.

               “Where are we going?” The words tumbled out on half a breath.

               Minho pushed open the door to the nearest dressing room and slammed it closed, stepping forward until Jisung’s back was pressed flush against the wall.

               Jisung blinked again, long and slow, as his glamour-addled brain tried to catch up with the situation at hand. “Is this… Are we…?”

               Inches between them, and Minho’s fingers were starting to shake.

               “I-I mean, at least come back to my place?”

               Another step closer, inches became centimeters, Minho’s hands found their way into Jisung’s hair.

               A shaky breath. “Oh, o-okay, here is fine, I mean, here is definitely fine.”

               Minho could feel himself slipping – the human part, the part he held onto like a drowning man to a life preserver – it was slipping and he could feel the bloodlust like sticky tar, clinging to the inside of his body, choking him, blinding him, _changing_ him. His fangs, slender as needles, dug into his bottom lip and he didn’t have the equanimity to feel ashamed. Jisung was glass and he’d break and break and break under Minho’s fingers until scarlet sunlight ended the thirst.

               He brought his lips to Jisung’s neck, harsh and uncontrolled, and Jisung let out the softest whine that snapped Minho back to reality for a dizzying instant.

               Black blood on church steps—

               _What was he doing?_

               Lifeless eyes and chalky skin, the shame, the guilt—

               _You’re a monster, Lee Minho. A monster through and through._

He gasped and took a step back. His glamour fell through his shaky composure and Jisung’s eyes fluttered open, focused on him, and sharpened with dread.

               Minho knew what he saw: needlepoint fangs extended, digging into lips bloodless and ashy with need. Pupils pitch-dark and blown wide, with scarlet irises bleeding out across the sclera in a network of crimson spiderwebs. And he knew how he must look.

               Deadly. Dangerous.

               Jisung tried to step back reflexively, but only succeeded in pressing himself harder against the wall, his nails scrabbling against the paint in a futile attempt to move. “You’re--”

               Minho shook his head, fingers curling into fists. It was there again, the bloodlust, climbing up his throat with a razor-clawed vengeance. The solution was there, so easily attainable—

               Jisung’s words came out as a strangled gasp. “Y-You’re a vampire.”

               And Minho couldn’t stand it, the fear in his eyes and the chokehold that terror had on his speech. He couldn’t stand that it was justified, that he was _right_. Jisung was right to cower against the wall, fingers splayed and eyes wide as coins, frozen in horror with icy sweat disappearing into the collar of his shirt. And the bloodlust cheered in triumph because surely now Minho could have everything he was hoping for.

               But then Jisung took a step away from the wall and grabbed Minho’s hand in both of his. Minho flinched at the fire on his skin and nearly choked on the claws tearing his throat into pieces. The proximity was dangerous; how could this boy possibly be so audacious—

               _“Please,”_ Jisung whispered. His eyes were wide and full of a genuine sincerity that could only come from someone supplicating, “please don’t kill me.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone... so um I love Stray Kids with my entire heart and soul and I live and breathe for Minsung so I hope you enjoy this???


	2. For I Stood Up

               “I…” Minho tried to speak, his tongue pressing against the backs of his fangs, and Jisung’s grip tightened.

               “You know how strict they are about this,” Jisung breathed. “You can’t--”

               “I could.” Minho flinched as his voice came out choked and small. Bloodlust had a dark hand wrapped tight around his throat and his muscles were taut as bowstrings. Jisung’s skin had been so soft under his lips, his pulse point so close-- “It would be so easy, you know. So quick.”

               “But they’d catch you. You’d go to jail, and you know what happens--”

               Minho knew. Everyone did. It had been a topic of controversy on every politician’s platform since the 1990s, and he couldn’t forget the choppy news coverage that had flickered across his dim TV screen: a labyrinth of underground cells, with vampires starved to the point of insanity, their skin like ashy leather pulled across brittle bones.

               _But if you turn him,_ the bloodlust reasoned—

               “No,” Minho gasped. He shoved Jisung back and watched as he collided roughly with the wall. His throat _ached_ , his fingers shook, tiny pinpricks of pain shot through his bottom lip whenever his fangs dug in too hard, and he was spiraling, and he suddenly remembered Hyunjin hunched over Felix’s lifeless body and maybe that had been a lot like this.

               But Minho wasn’t Hyunjin.

               “I have a brother.” Jisung’s voice was soft and his fingers were curled against the wall. “It’s his birthday next week, and I promised I’d take him to see that new superhero movie that’s coming out. He’s turning eleven.”

               Minho wasn’t Hyunjin, and the life preserver of humanity was coming back to him, floating on a blood-red sea, and he reached for it with shaking hands.

               “I… I make music,” Jisung continued. His eyes were locked on his shoes, his round glasses perched at the very tip of his nose. “It’s not really good or anything, just something I do with my friends, but how else can you express yourself when the world’s this fucked up, you know?” He let out a breathy laugh that was completely devoid of humor. “My favorite food is cheesecake, but Changbin says that doesn’t really count as a food. His opinion hardly matters, though. I mean, he sleeps with a fucking Munchlax plush--” Jisung cut himself off and glanced up. There was a blush on his cheeks, a dusty rose pink – _so pretty –_ and Minho swallowed hard.

               Jisung was all soft lines edged in radiance, with his mussed light hair and parted lips and sunshine eyes, and his heart was pattering twice as fast as it should have been.

               _God, just one taste, just one—_

But no, Jisung had a brother, and music, and friends, and he didn’t deserve to end up as a black puddle on church steps like that girl in 1919, and holy hell, had it really been nearly a century already?

               “Get out,” Minho whispered. He took a step back, then two and three more.

               Jisung’s eyes were wide. “What?”

               Minho’s back collided with the dressing room’s vanity, and a bottle of hairspray clattered to the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

               He could still remember gunshots ringing out across the town plaza. It was spring. 1919. Harsh words in clipped Japanese, but maybe they sounded harsher because the language didn’t belong on their peninsula, _his_ peninsula.

               It was a pity that the passing of a century didn’t make the memory any weaker.

               “Get out! Go!” He gestured toward the door and Jisung glanced at it, his eyebrows furrowing. He took a hesitant step forward and jerked his head toward Minho, as if watching for any sign of pursuit.

               Minho’s legs were trembling, and he let himself slide to the floor. He winced as his fangs retracted. He had the life preserver now, he clung to it like a man drowning, but he didn’t feel any less vile. “You have five seconds, Jisung.” The name burned on his tongue.

               Jisung was out the door in three.

☼

               Minho hadn’t left his apartment in two days – or rather, two nights. His phone was on silent to ignore the incessant calls from Hyunjin. There were twenty-three of them the last time he checked. He read Felix’s text messages but never responded to them – they were usually memes of a sad-looking frog and he didn’t have the will or the means to reply.

               His head ached, he felt as if he’d swallowed glass, and his muscles were alight with a predatory electricity. He hadn’t been this thirsty in decades.

               _You could have had him,_ the demon in his head snarled, thrashing in its chains.

               “And then what?” He asked the ceiling. The ceiling stared blankly back. He sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position, his shoulder blades digging into the sofa.

               He heard soft footsteps approach his door before a loud knock echoed throughout the apartment, followed by a hissed, “Lee Minho, for the love of God, if you don’t open this door right now, I will go to Wonsan and desecrate the graves of your family.”

               “Good luck getting across the border,” Minho called.

               Hyunjin huffed as his boot made contact with the door. “I’m serious, asshole.”

               Minho sighed and shuffled to the door, pulling it open to reveal Hyunjin with a storm in his eyes and raindrops on the shoulders of his leather jacket. He pushed past Minho roughly and folded his arms tight across his chest. “You better explain yourself.”

               Minho let the door swing shut. “You better take off your shoes so you don’t track mud into my house.”

               “Our friendship is on thin ice, Minho, do you really want to go there--”

               “Our ‘friendship’ has been on thin ice since 2011, _Hyunjin_ , so take off your fucking shoes like a proper Korean and shut your mouth. God, you lived in California for too long.”

               Hyunjin tugged off his boots and threw them under the kitchen table. “You should know. You were there for most of it.”

               Minho pursed his lips. He wasn’t about to get into that argument with Hyunjin again. “What are you doing here?”

               “What do you think?”

               “If it’s about work, just tell Siyeon that I’ll be back--”

               Hyunjin raised a brow and sank onto the sofa. “Siyeon doesn’t give a shit about you. The customers are getting antsy, though. I’ve had at least fifteen people ask for the ‘Minho Special’ and I don’t know what that is.”

               “Seven parts beer, three parts soju, two parts Red Bull, and a dash of baekseju.”

               Hyunjin choked. “That sounds disgusting.”

               “I’m sure it is.” Minho shrugged and kept his gaze on the floor. There was a beat of silence.

               “You know why I’m actually here,” Hyunjin said softly.

               Minho didn’t look up.

               “That boy. Did you…?” The question hung in the air between them like smoke.

               Something sparked in Minho’s veins. “Did I what?”

               “Come on, Minho, you nearly tore his arm off when you took him backstage. I’ve never seen you that aggressive. Felix thought you killed him for sure--”

               “Right, because _I’m_ the one with the self-control issues,” Minho snapped. His fingernails dug sharp crescents into his palms, and he couldn’t stop the ire pulsing underneath his skin. The thirst intensified his anger – the grating pain in the back of his throat was wearing his patience thin – but for Felix and Hyunjin to even _think_ —

               “A century doesn’t make you perfect,” Hyunjin snapped back. “It happens to the best of us, so get off your fucking high horse.”

               “I didn’t kill him.” The words came out low and cold. He marched to Hyunjin and jabbed a finger against his chest. “I didn’t even _drink_. So obviously, Hwang Hyunjin, I am better than the best of us, and I’ve got more self-control in one finger than you’ll ever have in your entire goddamn body.”

               Hyunjin’s lips curled into a lethal smirk. “The boy got you that riled up, huh?”

               “Get out of my house,” Minho hissed.

               “Dude!” Hyunjin let out a breathy chuckle and held up both hands. “I’m just saying, we’re all bound to run across humans who affect us more than others. No one will blame you if you snap.”

               He thought of Jisung’s radiance, the flames under his skin, the sunlight in his veins, how soft his skin had been under his lips—The pain in his throat tripled and his hands began to tremble. He shook his head and let himself sink into the couch cushions. “You don’t get it.”

               “Try me.”

               “It’s not just… the blood,” Minho breathed. “It’s… everything. He’s so _bright_. And warm. I can’t sleep because I can’t get his smile out of my head. It’s like a moth and a lamp, you know? I keep getting drawn back in even though I know I shouldn’t.”

               Hyunjin snorted. “And you think I don’t get it.”

               “I’m sure it’s not the same--”

               “You’re sure?” Hyunjin’s voice rose, and anyone else would have cowered at the fire in his eyes. “Well, wait until you’ve got him nearly dead on the asphalt, then we’ll find out if it’s the fucking same. Do you actually think Felix was just blood for me?”

               Minho averted his gaze. He didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to think about how Hyunjin had fixated on Felix for days with a glint in his eyes that was part predatory, part fond. He didn’t want to think about the club’s back door slamming shut behind him, Felix’s gasps as he tangled his fingers in Hyunjin’s hair, the way he had begged for more in a glamour-induced slur even though Hyunjin showed no signs of stopping, crimson blood running in rivers down his chin, his neck, his hands.

               “You could’ve held back.” Minho’s voice was dark. “You _should’ve_.”

               “Like you are? Because you’re such a goddamn _saint_.”

               Minho felt his skin prickle. “You really don’t regret it? You don’t regret turning Felix like that? He was only 17, Hyunjin, he still had a whole life--”

               There was a noise then, high-pitched and breathy, and it took Minho a moment to realize that Hyunjin was laughing at him. “A whole life? Are you listening to yourself? You’re the one who told me to kill him!”

               “Death would be better than this.”

               Hyunjin leaned over to kick his shin with a socked foot. “God, you’re so dramatic, holy shit. You know Felix loves this. He got into that club in 2011 with a fake ID and now he’s a bartender and a dancer with pretty boys fawning over him left and right. That’s way better than living in a stuffy goshiwon and eating instant ramen. Let him enjoy it.”

               Minho frowned and said nothing.

               “And besides,” Hyunjin added with a wink, letting his tongue run across his bottom lip, “his blood was the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. It was worth it for sure.”

☼

               Minho went back to work the next night, and Siyeon regarded him with a raised eyebrow when he shouldered open the door to the employee lounge.

               “You look like you could use a drink.”

               He dumped his bag in a nearby armchair. “Not funny.”

               She had the decency to grimace. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but you need to sort it out. We can’t have you bailing like this.”

               “I know.” Minho sighed and brought his fingers to his temples. There was a pressure building behind the backs of his eyes and he ground his teeth against it. “I know, I’m sorry.”

               “How long has it been?”

               “Since I drank?”

               She nodded.

               Minho swallowed. “Not last week’s performance, but the performance before that.”

               Siyeon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why?”

               “It’s… complicated.”

               “If you mess this up, you’ll be replaced.” Siyeon’s tone was daggers and ice. “Don’t forget that.”

               Minho’s glare was equally sharp as he pushed open the door. “I won’t.”

               He slid behind the bar and set to gathering abandoned glasses. It was nine p.m. on a Monday and the customers were listless and sparse. He could see Hyunjin at the other end of the counter, elbows propped up, his head in his hands, flirting shamelessly with a blushing boy who had definitely had one too many.

               The front door swung open and someone shuffled down the steps, bringing in the intermingled scents of rainwater, cigarette smoke, and blood. Minho watched idly as they took a seat at the counter and shook the water from their hair.

               But then there was a shout, and a hand shot out to catch the door before it could close, and Minho felt his fingernails scrape against the countertop. The door was pulled open again, and Minho could feel it: that cosmic energy, that supernova in the dark expanse of his existence, and fire erupted from his throat to the tips of his toes.

               Jisung trotted down the stairs and slid onto a barstool, tugging a list of drinks toward him with lithe fingers. The coat he wore was puffy and oversized, and his hair was tousled beneath a white knit hat. He certainly wasn’t dressed for a club, looking worlds different from the Jisung of last week with the styled hair and dark liner. But he was still so quintessentially _Jisung_ : soft at the edges and breakable and _so enticing._

               Hyunjin got to him first, and Minho heard Jisung order a beer and nothing else.

               Hyunjin sauntered over to Minho at the opposite end of the bar and grabbed a glass from the shelf. “He’s hot,” he said with a wink. “I’d like to remind you, in case you’ve forgotten, that Felix’s blood was the best I’ve ever had.”

               “Fuck you, Hyunjin,” Minho hissed.

               Hyunjin only shrugged and walked away with Jisung’s drink in hand.

               It was the purest agony.

               Minho went about his shift: mixing drinks, charming customers, accepting tips with a demure smile, but the monster inside was thrashing against its restraints. He ached down to his teeth, his fangs threatening to extend whenever he opened his mouth, and every movement, every brush of air, every miniscule shift was as palpable as a blow to the chest. He could feel Jisung’s eyes on him, tracking every step he took, and he wanted to tear himself down to the very bones just so he wouldn’t have to _feel_.

               The clock struck eleven and most of the customers had drifted out the door. A few couples lingered in scattered booths, but Minho ignored them as his eyes came to rest on Jisung. He was only halfway through his glass of beer, and he had pulled his hat off some time during the night. His hair was a mussed cloud around his head and Minho remembered what it felt like in his fingers.

               “Are you going to stop ignoring me?” Jisung’s voice was soft.

               Minho’s fingers faltered, and the shot glass in his hands slipped from his grasp. He managed to catch it before it smashed against the tile. “No.”

               “Why?”

               “I can’t answer that, I’m ignoring you.”

               Jisung chuckled. “Right.”

               Seconds stretched into minutes. Jisung didn’t drink any more, and Minho swallowed against the pain in his throat. There was a dull ringing in his ears. God, how was he supposed to stand this—

               “Jisung?”

               His eyes were bright when he looked up at Minho, and he wondered where the fear had gone. He rarely used glamour on the nights he was bartending – he didn’t need customers pliant and anxious to touch when he was simply serving drinks. So if glamour wasn’t keeping Jisung locked on his every move – what was?

               “Why are you here?”

               Jisung gestured toward his glass. “I came to get a drink, obviously.”

               “No.” Minho shook his head. “I mean, why did you come back? After…”

               Jisung seemed to mull over the question, tapping his fingernail gently against the side of his glass. “I want to know why you let me go.”

               Minho felt his chest constrict. How could he explain that he was a monster, that he was guilty, that a century ago he had murdered an innocent woman and let her blood run down the steps of a church in the middle of the night, that he was weak because it had been a _century_ and he still wasn’t able to let it go? That it was a myriad of things, of hostilities and struggles and pain, and that specific memory of digging up through the dirt after being shot by a Japanese soldier, and Seungmin’s voice telling him that _all lives burn bright as lantern flame—_

“You asked me to,” Minho choked out eventually. “I did it because you asked me to.”

               Jisung blinked and his lips parted. “I didn’t think you’d really listen. I was just trying to save my own skin, saying anything I could think of--”

               “Were you lying?”

               “No, no, no!” He waved his hands in front of his face, and the shifting air made Minho’s fingers curl. “They were all true, but they were such mundane human things, I didn’t think they’d really work on… you know…” He let his hands drop into his lap.  

               “Ah.” Minho grimaced at the sting. “Right, we vampires don’t understand human things.”

               Jisung’s face fell. “N-no, that’s… that’s not what I meant--”

               “You know,” Minho said, keeping his voice tight and controlled as his fingers dug miniature trenches into the granite counter. “I had a little sister. I took the train all the way from Seoul to Wonsan to visit her and my parents for her birthday. I didn’t even see her open her gifts.” He leaned forward then, teeth bared in a snarl, and he knew this was too much. The pounding in his head, the burning in his throat, the ringing in his ears were driving him to do and say things he normally wouldn’t, but he was a hurricane and he’d tear the building down before anyone stopped him. “Do you want to know why?”

               Jisung’s eyes were wide and he shook his head just enough.

               But Minho barreled on. “I died,” he hissed, and Jisung flinched. “Now all I have is this, and it’s all I’ll ever have. I don’t give a shit if you think your human things are mundane, Jisung. I’d give _anything_ to have them back.” With a last look at Jisung’s watery eyes and slumped shoulders, Minho stormed up the club steps and threw open the door.

               Lightning split the sky, and rain darkened the sidewalk as he sagged against the wall. He had grown to hate the rain ever since he’d been turned. It intensified every sight and every smell until he was drowning in a sea of diamond-studded streetlights and petrichor. His head was starting to swim. His muscles buzzed with tension. He imagined his throat cracking into a thousand pieces.

               “H-Hey, I’m sorry for…”

               There he was, the supernova with no sense of self-preservation, and Minho thought his knees might give out so he let himself sink to the concrete.

               Jisung stepped into the rain, and Minho knew it was going to be worse, he braced himself for it, but it hit him like a freight train and his vision went black for a dizzying instant. It was jewel-encrusted, blinding, golden-sunlight-pooling-across-the-sidewalk _torture_. And Jisung’s lips were moving but Minho couldn’t hear what he was saying, and Jisung was taking a step closer with curious eyes—

               Minho was on his feet. His vision was sharp, his hearing acute – Jisung’s every breath, every movement, every heartbeat rang clear as crystal and Minho watched as raindrops trailed down the side of his face. His lashes were long, lips full, hair tangled, pulse point – _there._

               No thoughts. Instinct.

               He had a hand in Jisung’s soaked hair, tugging roughly until Jisung tipped his head back with a pained gasp. And he wasn’t going to wait. Not this time.

               He felt his fangs graze the skin, he heard Jisung suck in a surprised breath—

               There were hands pulling at his shirt, yanking him away from his salvation, dragging him across the sidewalk with inhuman force. Minho kicked and thrashed, clawing at his captors, spitting expletives because _how could they do this to him, how could they—_

“Minho!” Siyeon’s voice, coming from a thousand miles away.

               “Get your fucking shit together!” Hyunjin, exasperated with his nails digging into Minho’s skin.

               He could taste Jisung on his tongue, his vision slipped in and out of dappled darkness, and he was so close, maybe just one or two steps more and he’d finally have Jisung’s blood on his lips—

               But he was back in the club, he could smell the alcohol, the smoke—

               It was dark – where was Jisung? – and everything went still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: spent my 21st birthday in Seoul singing KPop songs at noraebang and sipping unflavored makgeolli  
> Everyone in this story: FAKE IDS AND SHOTS BITCH EVERYONE IN THE CLUB GETTIN TURNT  
> Me: what


	3. And All the Dead Lie Down

              “Bring him in, quick.” Siyeon’s voice, hushed and ragged at the edges.

               Shuffled footsteps. The sharp scent of blood, like glass and needles in his throat. Not Jisung’s, not nearly as tantalizing, but his brain felt hazy and all of his muscles were coiled and ready to strike. Not Jisung – where was Jisung? – but _God_ he was so thirsty and rainwater was trickling from the tips of his fingers in a maddening _drip, drip, drip_ onto the tile.

               The cool leather of the employee lounge sofa was at his back. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Siyeon’s fingers dug into his shoulders, hard enough to cause pain he supposed, and the shuffling footsteps grew louder.

               “Ah, what a good boy,” Hyunjin was purring. _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle._ “You’re doing a great job.” It was glamour-heavy, dripping with a honey-sweet flirtation, and Minho pulled his eyelids open as the scent of blood drew closer.

               The boy clinging to Hyunjin’s arm looked impossibly young, with disheveled dark hair and sharp eyes. He grinned at Hyunjin lazily, dimples and braces on full display, before nearly melting into his side.

               “Good, good.” Hyunjin ran a hand through the boy’s hair and shot Minho a pointed look.

               Before Minho could process anything through the haze and pain and confusion, Siyeon had snagged a surgical knife from a back cabinet and made a neat incision on the boy’s left wrist. He let out a soft gasp and blinked slowly at the wound, regarding it with a detached curiosity like an onlooker at a car accident. Blood ran in rivulets to the floor.

               A sound tore through Minho’s throat, a snarl he didn’t know he could make, and he was on his knees with the boy’s wrist at his mouth before he could think twice.

               It was messy, and completely devoid of the elegance vampires were historically associated with. There was no place for velvets and silks, delicate puncture wounds at the jugular and lithe fingers wrapped around the stems of crystal wine glasses. Not here, in the back room of a Gangnam nightclub with scuffed floors. The blood ran hot down Minho’s fingers, staining the cuffs of his sky-blue cardigan as the sharp pain in his throat rounded out into the shape of something tolerable.

               _Tolerable,_ his brain hissed, _don’t you deserve better?_

               The boy was pliant, so willing, staring at Minho with glassy eyes. Hyunjin continued to run his fingers through the boy’s hair. And maybe, if Minho kept his eyes closed, if he painted Jisung’s face behind his eyelids, if he pretended hard enough—He felt his lips pull back from his fangs just as a hand came to wrap around his throat.

               “Don’t you dare bite him,” Siyeon spat, pushing him back roughly. The boy’s wrist fell from his grasp.

               Minho coughed as blood ran thick from his lips to the tip of his chin. Reality snapped back into focus with a painful clarity and he wished he could vomit, if only to rid himself of the nausea. Siyeon’s fingers dug into the side of his neck and fire sparked behind her irises. The boy had gone limp in Hyunjin’s arms, his eyes threatening to flutter closed.

               “I’m sorry,” Minho gasped, but he didn’t know who he was apologizing to. To Siyeon and Hyunjin, for thrashing against their grip and spitting expletives in their faces? To the boy with braces, for allowing his blood to rush across his tongue without the faintest trace of guilt? To Jisung?

               “Don’t apologize to us,” Hyunjin muttered. He rolled his eyes and continued carding his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Apologize to the boy toy you could have killed out there.”

               Minho flinched. Jisung’s skin against his lips, his fingers tangled in wet hair—the dull ache that flared in his throat was tampered only by the weight of his guilt. “Where is he?”

               “Someone took him home.” Siyeon let her hand fall from Minho’s throat.

               “Someone?”

               There was a light knock at the door to the lounge, and the room went eerily still. There was a pressure in Minho’s chest, a gravitational tug that he hadn’t felt in decades, and it was 1919 again: dirt caked under his fingernails, looking back at his shallow grave in mute horror, choking on the disbelief—

               “Seungmin?” He breathed.

               The door opened on silent hinges. Seungmin was there, his lips turned down at the corners, looking every bit as youthful as he had the last time Minho saw him. He had swapped his dated suit and tie for a hoodie and tight jeans, but Minho would know the face of his Maker anywhere.

               “I would ask if you missed me,” Seungmin said with a delicate sigh, “but I’m sure you didn’t.”

               Minho felt as if his skin had iced over. “Y-you’re…here?”

               “Obviously.”

               “Why? What are you—what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since--”

               “1950?” Seungmin tilted his head to one side as the faintest smile ghosted across his lips. “I missed you, even if the feeling’s not mutual.”

               Minho stood on shaky legs. The cuffs of his cardigan were soaked crimson and he could feel the blood drying against his face. Nearly seventy years, and this was what he had to show for it? That all of Seungmin’s guidance, his teaching, his advice had led to Minho nearly killing someone in the back room of a Seoul nightclub?

               “I’m sorry, Seungmin, I… I swear I don’t usually do this.”

               Seungmin shook his head and strode toward Hyunjin, reaching for the boy in his arms. He held the boy’s wrist in gentle fingers and raised an eyebrow in Minho’s direction. “At least seal the wound. I taught you better than that, didn’t I?”

               Guilt flared again in Minho’s chest as he sealed the gash with a quick swipe of the tongue. He watched as the coagulation process picked up speed and the skin began to knit back together, as if he had personally rushed the hands of time forward. _Interesting, isn’t it,_ Seungmin had always said, _that someone could be killed and healed by the same hands._

Seungmin nodded his approval and raised his eyes to Hyunjin. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you? Make sure he gets home safe.”

               Minho was prepared for a Hyunjin-esque retort along the lines of _“It’s not my responsibility”_ , but Hyunjin merely stared at Seungmin with wide eyes before nodding and carrying the boy out the door.

               Siyeon cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” The door closed silently behind her.

               The room descended into another bout of eerie silence. Minho stared at the drops of blood littering the concrete floor and tried to push away the uneasiness that rose in his throat.

               “Minho, look at me.”

               He flinched and took a step back before locking eyes with his Maker. Seungmin’s expression was open and kind, as it had always been, but there was concern laid bare in his gaze.

               “Can you guess why I’m here?”

               Minho shook his head.

               Seungmin raised a brow. “You can’t?”

               His brain flipped through thousands of images in the span of a second: Jisung pressed against the wall, the boy with braces standing limp in Hyunjin’s arms, the white expanse of his apartment’s ceiling mocking him for his weak will. He swallowed and tried to use his cardigan sleeve to wipe the drying blood from his face. “Things have been difficult.”

               “As I’ve noticed.”

               “So what, are you here to chastise me or something?”

               Seungmin laughed then, just the smallest puff of air through parted lips. “No. I’m here to check on you. To make sure you’re okay.”

               Minho sank onto the couch. “You’ve never come to check on me before.”

               “Well, you’ve never lost your sense and nearly bitten a human on a public sidewalk before, now, have you?”

               He sucked in a quick breath – more habit than necessity – and watched as his fingers curled into fists on his lap. He didn’t have to ask how Seungmin knew – as his Maker, he was attuned to Minho’s emotions almost as well as Minho himself. A thirst as strong as what he felt for Jisung would have immediately registered on Seungmin’s radar. And he was ashamed, suddenly, that his weakness had dragged Seungmin to him like this.

               “Tell me about it.” Seungmin’s voice was soft as he sat next to Minho and placed a gentle hand on his knee.

               Minho curled in on himself. “I’m sure you already know.”

               There was a beat of silence. “It’s that boy, right? Jisung?”

               “How do you know his name?” It came out as a whisper.

               “I walked him to the station to make sure he got home. He lives quite a distance from here, you know. Nearly an hour on the subway.”

               “You…” Minho swallowed. “You talked with him?”

               Seungmin tilted his head to the side. “He was surprisingly chatty for someone who’s nearly been killed by a vampire twice.”

               Minho flinched as shame washed through him. There was an apology on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall past parted lips, but Seungmin shook his head.

               “Minho, do you remember Donghyuck?”

               It was an unexpected question, and Minho glanced at Seungmin in surprise. Of course he remembered Donghyuck, all honey skin and tousled hair under the soft yellow light of that dingy bar. He had been young – only 18 when he was turned – and was by far the most reckless of their group. But he had a laugh like sunshine and none of them could stay angry with him for long. “Yes, of course.”

               “When the war started and we all split up, he fled to Canada. Did you know that?”

               Minho frowned. “I didn’t know that, but what does this have to do with--”

               “He met someone there. A human.” Seungmin’s voice was low, turned soft at the edges with nostalgia. “A human that he couldn’t stay away from. The most enticing blood he’d ever smelled, he told me, but with a heart of gold and the sweetest personality. They were like magnets, always coming back together no matter how many times they were pulled apart. But you know what?”

               Minho stayed silent and kept his gaze turned toward the floor. He didn’t want to know where Seungmin was going with this, didn’t want to know what Donghyuck might have done—

               “He wouldn’t bite him. He refused.”

               His head snapped up at that. “What?”

               “It was more than blood between them,” Seungmin mused. “It was a mutual attraction, completely undeniable. They fell in love, and Donghyuck wouldn’t bite him. And every day was the most unbelievable torture because he had to wage that war: the battle between his human affection and his vampiric nature.”

               Minho opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he realized he had nothing to say. He was sure he wouldn’t like where this was headed, and he felt the faintest nausea settle in the pit of his stomach.

               Seungmin sighed. “So his human went to the Vestry.”

               It was ice down Minho’s spine. “No,” he gasped.

               “He consented to the blood bond,” Seungmin murmured. “For Donghyuck’s sake. He trusted him enough to drink without killing him. He put his life in his hands. The Vestry granted his request and he was so sure that he’d made Donghyuck happy, he was _so sure_ that it would work…”

               Minho could feel the nausea begin to rise. “Seungmin--”

               “But the second Donghyuck got a taste…” His voice dropped ever lower. “He couldn’t stop. He was out of control. Mark was dead in half a minute and Donghyuck couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t live like that, not with that guilt on his hands. It drove him to madness.”

               Minho felt like choking.

               “He intercepted a Hunter party in the woods… It was the 50s, I’m sure you remember what it was like. All those leftover businesses losing money after they stopped issuing victory bonds, trying to make a quick buck by doing business with the black market. Donghyuck begged them to kill him. They didn’t need to be told twice.”

               Minho sat stock still as a dark sadness rose in him like viscous tar. Donghyuck had been gone all these years and he hadn’t even known. “Seungmin, why are you telling me this?”

               There was a pause in which Seungmin placed his hand over Minho’s own. “I don’t want to lose you, Min. I need you to be responsible. Please just… Just don’t make any rash decisions. Can you promise me that?”

               “Do you really think--” A shocked laugh slipped past Minho’s lips and he would have been ashamed if the situation didn’t seem quite so ridiculous. “That Jisung and I… Seungmin, no, it isn’t like that, it won’t ever be like that. _A consensual blood bond_ , are you joking? I barely even know the kid!”

               “And yet you’ve nearly bitten him twice.”

               “I…” He shook his head as the syllables stumbled across his tongue, jumbled and twisted as tree roots. “I didn’t, though. I _didn’t_. I can control myself… I- I know I can. Do you not trust me?”

               “Minho, look at yourself.” Seungmin’s lips turned downward in a frown. He gestured at Minho, as if to indicate his bloodstained sleeves and pleading eyes. “I’ve never seen you like this. I’m just worried about you.”

               “I’ll be fine.” His voice shook on the last word and his fingers curled inward. “I can stay away from him. I can control myself. I’m strong enough to do that, you know I am.”

               Their gazes locked, and Seungmin’s was heavy with doubt. “Everything you’ve done so far proves otherwise.”

☼

               Jisung didn’t return to the club, and Minho felt a steady relief chipping away at the edges of his worry. After two weeks, he felt that the words he’d said to Seungmin proved true: _I can stay away from him. I can control myself._ They continued their performances as normal, and while the blood of random strangers never slaked the thirst entirely, it was becoming easier and easier to push away the thoughts of Jisung’s blinding radiance.

               After a month, he felt almost normal again. There were occasional sleepless days when Jisung’s bright smile and enticing heat wormed their way into his dreams, and he would wake up with his throat aching and his muscles tense. But work became a way to cope as he surrounded himself with warm, beating hearts and soft skin. Girls with long, flowing hair and gaudy jewelry usually had expensive perfume dabbed on their wrists, and while it wasn’t the most pleasant taste, he grew accustomed to it. Boys with styled hair and tight jeans smelled like cigarette smoke mixed with soju, but it was easy to overlook when the blood was hot on his tongue. Felix’s shoulders had lost their tension and Hyunjin dropped the subject of Jisung entirely, instead opting to elbow Minho in the side with a grin whenever he took two winners backstage instead of one. It was far from ideal, but it was tolerable, and Minho found himself regaining his sense of control.

               “You almost out of here?” Felix called one Monday night as he gathered empty glasses from a corner booth. “I thought your shift ended at one.”

               Minho tossed the soiled washrag in his hands into a nearby bucket of cleaning solution. “Yeah, I’m heading out. Some dude spilled his Jager over on 32 but I took care of it. Do you need help with anything?”

               Felix shook his head and threw him his signature radiant grin, all pearly teeth and half-moon eyes. “Nah, you go. I’ll see you Wednesday?”

               “See you then.”

               He slung his bag over his shoulder and hurried up the steps, instantly flinching as he stepped outside. It had been raining off and on for three days, and the droplets gathered on traffic lights and metal railings like pieces of a shattered kaleidoscope. Everything stood out in crystal-clear detail, sights and scents heightened to an extreme degree, and he huffed out a sigh as he pushed open his umbrella. Each drop was a muffled gunshot against the nylon above his head.

               He was at the entrance to his apartment complex when the thin glass of his precarious control shattered against the cement.

               He could feel it, that cosmic radiance mixing with the water in the air, and after a month the scent hit him like a wall of bricks. His throat flared instantly, sharp enough to render him motionless on the sidewalk, pointed arrows edged with acid cutting deep as he swallowed. Predatory electricity sparked in his veins.

               _I can stay away from him. I can control myself._

               Minho tightened his grip on his bag. His fingernails dug crescents into the leather strap as he continued walking. A shudder crawled down his spine at the warmth on his skin, the saccharin-sweet melody of Jisung’s blood in the air, the memory of his fingers in his hair.

               _I can control myself._

He hurried forward, keeping his eyes locked on his building at the other side of the complex. _Only 400 steps more. 399, 398…_

But he could feel it like a physical weight, heavy on his shoulders as the humidity rose, and he thought he would surely choke. Every instinct was screaming for him to scan the murky darkness around each building until he had his fingers wrapped around that delicate neck—

               He shook his head and leaned forward to brace his free hand against his knee. He was stronger than this. He was better than this. He would prove it to Seungmin, and he would prove it to himself—

               “Excuse me, are you okay?” Jisung stepped out from a pool of shadow, his eyebrows drawn low in concern. He had no umbrella, and the rain soaked through the fabric of his oversized hoodie, darkening the color and sticking the hood against his sopping hair. He paused when he saw Minho, eyes darting to the ground before taking a hesitant step backward. “O-oh, it’s you.”

               Minho squeezed his eyes shut as he righted himself. “Jisung, what the hell are you doing here?”

               Jisung shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “I have a friend who lives here. We were supposed to meet up, but he’s not home yet, I guess.” He glanced upward, and Minho didn’t miss the way his teeth chattered with cold. It seemed wrong, somehow, that someone so radiant could be reduced to a shivering bundle of soaked fabric. Minho’s throat burned and his muscles ached. He could just pick out the dark circles under Jisung’s eyes.

               “How long have you been out here?” It came out strained and thin.

               “Only like twenty minutes.” Jisung shrugged. “I can’t even get inside to the elevator without Chan’s keycard, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon. I mean, we agreed to meet at one so--”

               Seungmin’s voice wove through his clouded thoughts: _“He was surprisingly chatty for someone who’s nearly been killed by a vampire twice.”_

               What could possibly motivate Jisung’s incessant speech? Fear? Was he trying to save himself again by firing off mundane details until Minho relented? The notion sat like poison on the back of Minho’s tongue as guilt wrapped itself around his neck.

               _I can control myself._

               “H-Have you tried calling him?”

               Jisung snorted. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when Chan picks up his phone. He’s always got it on silent; he probably doesn’t even know that I already called four times.”

               “It isn’t safe to be outside at this hour.”

               Jisung raised a brow. “Pretty sure the most dangerous thing out here is you.”

               Minho winced and a soft “I’m sorry” fell from his lips. The shame was bitter and strong, straight alcohol in his veins, rivalled only by the pain in his throat.

               “You’re weird, you know that?” Jisung tilted his head to the side and blinked rainwater from his eyes. He was even more brilliant like this, with kaleidoscope droplets catching in his hair.

               “What?” The word almost got stuck in Minho’s throat.

               “Why don’t you just kill me?” Jisung’s voice was delicate and nearly lost against the pounding rain. “I know you want to. I can tell. So why are you fighting it?”

               It hit like a freight train: the shame, the guilt, the horror. Minho’s umbrella almost slipped from his hand. “I don’t want to kill you,” he whispered. “The thought of it makes me sick.”

               “But you want to drink my blood.” It wasn’t a question.

               Minho swallowed. “More than anything.”

               “Seems like a difficult situation to be in.”

               “It’s bearable,” Minho lied.

               Jisung grinned then, dazzling and bright as the sun. “You’re a bad liar.”

               Minho shrugged and hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder.

               “I’ll get out of your hair,” Jisung said. His smile shone under the complex lights. “Wouldn’t want to make it any more _bearable_ for you.” He headed back up the steps of the building behind him, turning to sit on the uppermost one. His shoulders hunched against the temperature. Minho watched as he tried and failed to suppress a shiver.

               How cruel, really, that the universe was testing him like this. He took a step forward and flinched as the fire in his throat responded. “Take my umbrella, at least.”

               “Oh, a gentleman.” Jisung laughed and Minho felt dizzy. It was like watching a building go up in flames: painful, horrible, terrifying – but mesmerizing in the most macabre way. He held out the umbrella.

               Jisung laughed again – _so pretty –_ and tugged his hood lower. “Chivalry is dead and so are you. Do you think I’ll let you drink from me just because you’re being nice?”

               Minho blinked and his mouth fell open. He pulled his umbrella back over his head. “Th-that’s not what I was going for at all--”

               “It was a joke,” Jisung said with a wink. Minho thought he might collapse. “Keep your umbrella, Mr. Chivalrous. I’m fine.”

               “You’re going to get sick--”

               “Why does that matter to you?”

               Minho paused and took a step back. Jisung’s eyes tracked his movements. He looked incredibly small like this, with his knees pulled up to his chest while nearly drowning in his own hoodie. Minho’s throat ached, but his chest ached just as much. Jisung was the sun incarnate, warm and radiant and overflowing with life, and Minho wanted to bask in it almost as much as he wanted to run from it. It had been a century since he’d seen the sun. “It’s warmer upstairs.”

               “Well yeah, but I can’t get upstairs until Chan comes back.”

               Minho let the invitation drop and took another step back. “Oh. Uh, right.”

               Jisung laughed again, his eyes curving into crescents. “I’m kidding. Your sense of humor really needs some work.” He hopped down the steps and came closer. Minho could see his pulse fluttering at the side of his neck. He swallowed against the pure acid making its way down his throat.

               He handed the umbrella to Jisung and headed for his building, squinting against the raindrops scattered like diamonds across the sidewalk. Jisung had to jog to keep up.

               _I can control myself._ It ran through his head, a desperate mantra to fortify his weak will. But Seungmin’s voice was poised at the back of his mind, a delicate vase ready to topple from the shelf and shatter at his feet: _every day was the most unbelievable torture because he had to wage that war: the battle between his human affection and his vampiric nature._

               Minho flinched as Jisung’s shoulder brushed against his in the cramped elevator.

               A war, indeed. Flimsy feathered arrows against the might of cannons.

               The victor was obvious.

               He stepped into battle anyway.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeongin got his braces off and i'm not crying, you're crying  
> also don't @ me for putting markhyuck in this i love them so much RIP


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